


Spectral Color

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Series: A Year in the Life [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Episode: s01e08 The Last Patrol, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Prompt Fill, World War II, hagenau
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: Sorrowful, wet eyes met his own. “M’sorry, sarge. Sergeant Martin…he didn’t make it back.”He didn’t make it back.In an instant, Bull’s world lost color.OR: What could've happened if the Last Patrol hadn't been a success, and Bull had been left to adjust to a new, Johnnyless world.
Relationships: Johnny Martin/Bull Randleman
Series: A Year in the Life [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618882
Comments: 15
Kudos: 31





	Spectral Color

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muccamukk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/gifts).



> The first installment of my [Year in the Life](https://lt-aldo-raine.dreamwidth.org/9202.html) prompt series! Exciting! 
> 
> For the lovely Mucca. Hope you enjoy it, friend. <3

Despite the crunchy gravel of Hagenau's destroyed streets, Bull's approach was silent. The grace of that mountain's worth of a man never ceased to amaze Johnny. Bull formally announced his presence by way of rhetorical. "Can you believe it? We’re finally gonna get a hot shower, huh, Johnny?" 

The shorter sergeant snorted. "Don't know about _hot,_ but at least there'll be soap. It’s a good thing, too." Johnny shot a smug glance at his near-constant companion. "Wasn't gonna say nothin', but uh, you're startin' to smell like one of your barn animals, hey, Bull." 

An easygoing smile lifted the blonde's lips. "How would you know?" 

"Suppose showers means they're gonna want us to shave." 

Johnny ran a hand over his jaw, dry fingers scratching at a month's worth of dark stubble. He never was any good at growing a beard. Bull, though, he looked good. There was shape and character to the blonde beard now hiding the curve of the taller man’s chin and the roundness of his jaw. It was a man's beard—and if Johnny's fingers itched to touch it, well, such an inclination could only be born out of a mixture of admiration and jealousy. 

Blue eyes alight with mischief caught his own, and Johnny fidgeted, realizing he'd been staring. "Yeah, alright." He gave Bull a playful shove. "C'mon. Let's get some fresh clothes, huh? These things are so fuckin' dirty, I tell ya. If only my ma were here to see this shit..."

* * *

“Martin!”

Though Speirs always maintained a frightening readiness and a certain, constant level of intensity, the men of Easy Company were starting, at least, to understand the various _tones_ of their new captain. This particular, barking tone was one of business.

“Sir.” Johnny stood, abandoning his lunch of new K rations, including the first decent cup of coffee he’d had since well before Bastogne and Baby Ruth candy bars—stolen from CP after Luz had surrendered his post to a newly returned Perconte. He was dining with Bull and Pat Christenson that day, consoling Christenson after the loss of Bill Kiehn that morning during a mortar drop. Fuckin’ potatoes, of all things.

“At ease.” Though Johnny relaxed his stance, he neglected to return to his seat and only spared the briefest of glances toward Bull and Christenson. Speirs jerked his chin, indicating the hallway. “A word, sergeant.”

“Sir.”

The hallway was narrow, made even more so by Speirs’s intense persona, which filled every empty crevice. His CO wasted no time in getting to the truth of it. “There’s been a patrol scheduled for this evening. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that all of 2nd and some of 3rd Platoon have been requisitioned to cross the river and capture German prisoners at the observation post. Sergeant Malarkey was all set to lead the patrol when it came to our attention that, perhaps, the sergeant might need to sit this one out.”

Johnny felt himself nodding accordingly, even as the knot formed in his gut. He’d heard about the patrol, alright. So had the rest of the company. And they all thought it was fucking mad. German prisoners? Who needed ‘em? The Allies had already won this thing, everybody was saying it. It was only a matter of time… No need to risk American lives in some renegade POW mission. Not when they had already lost so many, too many, good men.

“Well, anyhow.” Speirs blinked. “I’d like you to relieve Malarkey. A Lieutenant Jones will be joining you as an observer. He’s green, so don’t count on him for much. A West Point kid. Probably somebody’s son. Mhmm. There’s a briefing with the patrol team and Major Winters at CP a 17h00. Until then, I suggest you get some rest.”

Then, the captain was gone.

 _Son of a bitch._ “Son of a bitch.”

Bull and Christenson appeared in the threshold, their faces sympathetic. Johnny snorted, humorlessly. “Can you believe this shit? War's almost over, but this kind of shit, this is how men die." 

Christenson’s eyes cast downward, a frown drooping his lips, and Johnny felt for just a second like a selfish little shit. He exchanged a knowing look of admonishment with Bull before he cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry, Pat.”

“It’s alright, Johnny.” Their friend nudged Johnny’s arm. “I’m sorry for _you_.”

“Yeah, well…”

“None of that, now.” A hand, heavy and warm, landed on his shoulder. Bull gave a slight squeeze accompanied by a wide, boyish grin. "You didn't die in Bastogne, you ain't gonna die here neither." 

“Your lips to God’s ears.”

* * *

That afternoon before the first patrol, Bull Randleman spent the better part of an hour methodically cleaning out from underneath his fingernails with a pocket knife, then smoothing down their ragged edges with the knife's tip as best he could manage. It was a painstaking, somewhat rewardless process, but he saw to its completion, nonetheless. He was, after all, desperate for distraction _,_ fighting—every minute—the urge to ask Winters to assign him to the patrol.

 _Johnny's_ patrol.

It wasn't that Bull doubted—not for a second—his best friend's abilities, or the capabilities of 2nd Platoon. But Bull knew the way of war. Knew that the slightest shift in the air could cause calamities unheard of. He also knew, regretfully, there was nothing that he could do from this side of the river but provide covering fire with the rest of the boys, then wait and see how it all played out. Bull wanted to find Johnny, to hover at the shorter man’s side, to selfishly indulge in the other sergeant’s presence until the absolute last second. But Bull knew that Johnny had a patrol to prepare for, had to sort himself and his men out, had to coordinate with their commanding officers and gather transport and demolition supplies. Bull’s presence would only serve to hinder that process—and grate on Johnny’s nerves.

Not to mention there was that West Pointer to contend with. Bull could only imagine the ire that the kid, so green and keen for action, would incur from Johnny through the course of the patrol. “It ain’t enough that I’ve gotta pull off this bullshit patrol, but they want me to babysit while I’m at it? Can you believe this shit, Bull?” But Winters had declined when Johnny had not-so-subtly suggested that the young lieutenant would have a better view from the Allied side of the river. They could only hope that the kid’s lack of experience wouldn’t get anybody hurt.

So, Bull fiddled with his pocket knife, longed for the taste of a decent cigar, and waited for nightfall.

* * *

He wasn’t quite asleep, lingering in that seemingly permanent space between restfulness and consciousness, a state of being he’d been inhabiting since well before—and certainly throughout—the company’s time in Bastogne. His body was slack, comfortable, and on a bed, no less. Although covered by an albeit dingy blanket on a cot that had undoubtedly seen better days, Bull hadn’t enjoyed such luxuries in over a month. He was inside, had a roof over his head and new winter boots on his feet. He should have been sleeping soundly.

Only—

Johnny had still not yet returned from patrol.

Like the rest of the battalion, Bull had remained nestled into the snow-flattened bushes of the river embankment in Hagenau, laying down covering firing and exchanging in a downright firefight with the krauts across the water, until Johnny’s patrol unit had made it safely back to their side of things, tumbled out of the rubber boats and crawled up the slope, disappearing into the basement of one building or another.

The Germans had continued to return fire for nearly an hour, and when it was over, Winters dismissed the battalion, Bull’s platoon slinking off to their billet to finally get some sleep. The moon was still fat and full above the river, and the Arkansas farm boy knew that Johnny would be along soon, once the prisoners were settled and he’d had a debrief. 

Bull wondered how many krauts Johnny and the boys had found. He wondered if they’d talk. The sergeant knew full well that every man had a breaking point, but he liked to think that, in the event of his capture, he would remain tight-lipped, would not betray his company or his country. He knew any prisoners they brought back would feel the same, would try their very best not to betray their Führer. What information could they give anyhow? From what Bull had gathered, this was an ordinary observation post and there would be little information to be gained here regarding the major trajectories of the German war effort beyond this modest region, if even that.

With a sigh, Bull thought, somewhat belatedly, _I hope we aren’t doin’ this for nothin’._

Heavy footfalls in the stairwell pulled Bull from his musings, and as the door swung open with a quick knock, a smirk curled the edges of his lips. “’Bout time you showed up.”

But instead of the familiar mess of chocolate curls, a shock of red hair greeted Bull. Babe Heffron hesitated in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes tired. A rock fell, landed square in the pit of Bull’s stomach, and anchored him to the bed even as rose to sit up. “Heffron. What is it?”

“Sarge—” The kid began, then stopped. Sighed. Shuffled. “I didn’t want—I’m sorry, I—”

“Out with it, son.”

Sorrowful, wet eyes met his own. “M’sorry, sarge. Sergeant Martin…he didn’t make it back.”

_He didn’t make it back._

In an instant, Bull’s world lost color.

His insides curled painfully, viciously, unforgivingly, a voice wailing in the back of his mind that Johnny— _Johnny—_ was dead. But— “That ain’t right. Can’t be. Johnny ain’t—” For the first time in his adult life, his voice cracked and waned like a boy’s. Suddenly, Bull was twelve years old again, standing in an Arkansas cornfield while his paw told him that his very best friend in the whole wide world, Buddy Johnson, had died that morning when the boiler on his uncle’s thresher blew out, taking out young Buddy and Hank the Dog’s hind legs in the process. Now—as then, Bull felt his knees go weak and his mind go blank. Now—as then, the only question on Bull’s mind was a question of the future: _how the hell am I gonna do this without him?_

“God, Johnny…” The words fell in a whisper.

It was all too much. He felt the wheels of his mind turning, heavy and slow as molasses, attempting but unable to process just exactly what was happening. Johnny couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t.

Swallowing thickly, Bull gaze turned from the private, color bleeding from his peripheral vision, the hardwood floors and the paint-chipped walls leaking until they were dim shades of gray, and asked, “How’d it happen?”

“I—Sarge, I don’t…” The redhead floundered.

“ _How did he die, Heffron?”_ Bull roared, to which Heffron sputtered, “I don’t know!”

“What the hell do you mean ‘you don’t know’?” This brought Bull to his feet, anger and worry and fear twisting deep in his gut as he instantly imaged a dozen scenarios, each more harrowing than the next. White spots flickered at the edge of Bull’s eyesight and before he knew it, he had a nasty hand twisted in the lapels of Heffron’s jacket and was shaking the kid something fierce. “What the hell’s that mean?”

Heffron’s gaze dropped as he sighed, a weary, shameful sound, a wail gathering in the back of the redhead’s throat. “The whole goddamn patrol was a disaster, sarge. To start, the fourth boat didn’t even make it across the river, ya know? Then, Jackson fucked up—blew himself up with his own grenade. A-and then the goddamn house we were supposed to take was fuckin’ abandoned. Not a goddamn soul in sight! So, there we were, searchin’ the place, four men down—and goddamn Vest, fuckin’ mail boy, he froze stiff the second we got in the place! Sergeant Martin, he—he tried to keep us together, but…we got ambushed while we were searchin’ the joint. They came out of nowhere, and…”

Heffron looked sick. He swayed in the doorway, slender, dirty fingers grasping at the jamb to keep himself upright. “He ordered us to retreat, take Jackson back while he laid the demolition charges…I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Bull. We should’a never left him. But he—he ordered us to, ya know? And Jackson was in a real bad way—aw, _fuck_. I’m sorry, Bull. We shouldn’t a’left him. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

Bull mulled over the private’s words. Another clusterfuck operation. Another good man—a _great_ man—lost in the army’s fruitless pursuit of—of what? And, to what would later be Bull’s shame, amid his agony, there was also a fierce and cruel hatred. Hatred for Heffron, for Cobb, for McClung, for Webster, for the whole lot of ‘em. Hatred for the troopers that had made it back alive when Johnny didn’t. Moreover, Bull would later understand, he hated them for doing what he never would have.

He hated them for leaving Johnny over there. Dead and alone. A brother abandoned.

“I don’t even have his dog tags…”

Later, he would muse that many of their brothers in arms had been, regretfully, left behind, often in spite of the company’s best efforts to see to it otherwise. Later, he would remember their first fateful jump into Normandy and the hundreds of men left to waste away. He would remember Holland and France, would remember Bastogne, and would eventually reconcile that 2nd Platoon had—in that moment—made the right call to follow Johnny’s final order and save as many men as they could.

But the news of Johnny’s death was such that, currently, Bull felt nothing but rage and a deep, sorrowful _hurt._

Without another word, Bull reached for his weapon and helmet, then brushed violently passed the redhead to bolt down the stairs. Heffron called after him, then trailed sloppily behind him when his hollers were ignored, but Bull was blind to it as he made his way toward Battalion CP.

He was halfway across the battered and broken town center when a strangled noise halted him, mid-step.

The noise was heartbreaking, a painful, pitiful last gasp of life. His body froze at the intrusion, terror and hope creeping down his spine in equal measure. He thought both: _Jesus, no,_ and _God, please._ Could that be Johnny? Could he have survived the initial firefight and somehow made his way to the river amid a kraut infestation? But a firm hand on his shoulder jolted Bull back to reality. Heffron met Bull’s eyes fiercely. “It’s not him,” he said, his words resolute. “We left a kraut on the embankment. He was hurt pretty bad. It ain’t Johnny, Bull.”

Clearing his throat, Bull nodded curtly, eyes dancing across the water attempting to make out the distant shapes in the moonlight. Where would he find the cold, lifeless body of his closest companion? Would Johnny, like the German, be heaped in the snow? Or would he be strapped to some table in a dirty basement, tortured and questioned by the krauts before his body gave out? But it was a useless endeavor. Bull was all but blind.

Tucking the stranger’s dying moans away, Bull and Heffron continued on to CP.

The front rooms were abandoned, but the pair soon discovered Captain Nixon hovering over a map in one of the backrooms. “Captain, sir.”

Nixon started. “Randleman, what is it?”

“It’s come to my attention, sir, that we left Sergeant Martin across the river. Frankly, I’d like to go get him back.”

To his credit, the intelligence officer appeared neither surprised nor put off by the young sergeant’s intrusion. He did, however, glance questioningly at the redhead sulking in the sergeant’s shadow. “Mhmm.” Nixon fiddled with the pen in his grasp, eyes cast back down at the map. He made vague tracing notions, tapped his pen twice, then straightened in his chair and fixed Bull with a blank stare. “We have a debrief with Colonel Sink at 05h30. I’ll…pass your concerns on to Major Winters, and Captain Speirs will get back to you.”

A muscle twitched in Bull’s jaw. But what else had he expected? That they would let him mount a full-scale rescue mission in the coming hours of dawn, with the Germans on high alert and in near-full visibility, all to retrieve the body of what was, at the end of the day, just another dead soldier? Bull gave a curt nod. “Thank you, sir.”

Turning on his heel, Bull nearly knocked over Heffron in his rush to leave CP before he said something that got him court martialed.

“Sergeant?”

“Sir?”

Nixon wiggled his pen. “Sink tossed around the idea of a second patrol, if the first proved to be successful. The colonel will be disappointed that we returned emptyhanded tonight. I don’t anticipate that it’ll be a great difficultly to convince the colonel for a second go…especially if you manage to snag a few Jerrys while you’re over there…” Nixon cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “—um, _securing_ Sergeant Martin.”

The tightness in Bull’s chest thumped. “Yes, sir.”

Heffron trailing behind in his wake, Bull retreated from CP with a single thought in his mind: _he couldn’t save Johnny’s life, but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least see his body safely returned home to his family—even if he had to cross that goddamn river alone and defy orders to do it._

* * *

Bull got the go ahead to lead a second patrol easy enough. All of the men from 2nd and 3rd Platoons from the first patrol immediately volunteered—none of the men felt right about leaving Sergeant Martin behind, even if it was on his own orders—, all save for Jackson, who had succumbed to his wounds shortly after the patrol’s return earlier that morning.

Malarkey volunteered, too.

“That ain’t necessary, Don.”

“Is so.” The short, redhead sighed. It was an entirely too weary sound, and when his eyes found Bull’s, the sergeant felt the weight of the world slide from the other man’s shoulders to his own. “He took my place. It should be me over there, not him. So, if you’re going to get him back, so am I.”

Bull couldn’t argue with that.

“Yeah, I’m comin’, too,” Liebgott had muttered, glaring daggers all the while at Webster, as if to say, _This wouldn’t have happened had I gone and not you._

“Sergeant Randleman.” Winters was a straight-forward man, an element of his character that Bull had admired since their Toccoa days. When the major pulled him aside shortly after his initial briefing with Captain Speirs, Bull could tell that whatever Winters was about to tell him would not be easy to swallow.

“You’ve got one chance to get this right, sergeant.” Winters’s lips drew into a thin line. “We’re moving off the line tomorrow.”

The major’s meaning was clear enough; tomorrow, they were leaving Hagenau—with or without Johnny Martin.

“I won’t let you down, sir.” And when Bull said it, he meant it.

* * *

He was a ball of nervous energy.

Every ounce of his being was coiled and ready to spring. He practically vibrated from the intensity of it. Dusk had fallen outside. In a few minutes, the world would be completely dark, and in a few hours, once night had fully descended, he would lead the second patrol across the icy river—and he would fight and search every building and house scattered throughout the German observation post until he found his best friend and brought him back. 

Come hell or high water, in this, failure simply wasn’t an option.

Thick fingers trailed over the edge of the dull, yellow packet of Juicy Fruit bubble gum. Johnny had given it to Bull before he’d left for the patrol. “Don’t chew it all at once, alright?” the dark-haired sergeant had instructed with a wink. He’d given it as a gift, seeing as how he’d managed to squirrel away a bunch of chocolate bars from Perco for himself, and had told Bull that he gum could keep him occupied until Johnny returned. “Then, maybe we’ll find something else for that mouth to do, huh?”

That had managed to garner a laugh from Bull. Johnny was always doing that—making Bull laugh when he least expected it, often due to Johnny’s prolific temper coupled with his, uh, _slight_ stature, or due to his generally flirtatious manner, which never failed to surprise Bull and land them both in a world of trouble. Too often Bull found himself, in those difficult moments when it all got to be just _too goddamn much_ , looking for the sergeant with sharp eyes and dangerous smile for some relief. 

Since Toccoa and Sobel and Currahee, Johnny Martin had become a constant in Bull’s new, incredible, terrifying, outrageous world. With Johnny at his side, Bull had not only survived the chaos of Normandy and the bloodiness of Bastogne, but Bull had seen and done things that he’d never even _heard_ of before the Airborne. Together, he and Johnny had traveled Europe, drinking cheap wine on the banks of the Seine, slinging fists in pub fights across southern England, stargazing in the tulip fields of Holland, and, above all, coming together in Mourmelon and sharing parts of each other usually reserved for spouses—if not those parts of themselves that one often kept hidden from the world entirely. Such had been their lives at war—friends, to brothers, to lovers.

The packet of Juicy Fruit still clutched firmly in his grasp, Bull felt, quite abruptly, that he was going to be ill.

He barely made it to the corner of the room beneath the shattered window before he was relieved of the contents of his stomach, reuniting with that day’s sloshy mixture of coffee and K rations. A splitting in his head brought Bull to his knees. Devastating, silent sobs wracked his body, his whole being rippling with tremors like the aftershocks of an earthquake. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel the cavernous, calamitous _pain._ And when he opened his eyes, the world had faded to a joyless black and white.

When his name rang out across the otherwise empty floor of his platoon’s billet, Bull was still kneeling in a pool of his own vomit and dragging a shaky hand over his wet mouth. A flushed Hashey filled the frame of his doorway seconds later. The private was sporting a fat grin that Bull felt had no goddamn right to exist in this new colorless, Johnnyless world. “You’ve gotta come see this. You won’t believe it!”

Though the blonde sergeant could barely stand, Hashey refused to relent and, in the end, resorted to physically dragging Bull out of the dilapidated building by the arm of his jacket, a task which under any other circumstances would have impressed Bull both for the fact that Hashey could hump Bull’s weight and the fact that the kid had the balls to do it in the first goddamn place.

A small crowd had gathered near the monument to the Great War that sat in the center of Hagenau. Bull couldn’t rightly think as to what might have summoned the troopers like so, but he didn’t have to wonder for long. Hashey approached the gaggle and shouted, “Outta the way! C’mon, _move_!” as he elbowed and shoved his way through the crowd, beckoning Bull over his shoulder in a downright giddy fashion. “C’mon, sarge! Look who’s back!”

As Bull stepped forward, a sea of familiar faces parted to reveal a drowned rat in the shape of Johnny Martin.

Bull’s footing faltered, and he clapped a hand onto Hashey’s arm to steady himself.

_All be damned._

Water dripping off his nose and down his chin, Johnny Martin stood proudly and crooked a smile at the blonde. “Hiya, Bull.” Shivering as he was, the shorter sergeant’s words came out a bit stammered and the gathered troopers let out a general laugh of disbelief.

“You really are a crazy son of a bitch, ya know that, sarge?” Heffron shouted. To which Liebgott promptly countered, “Jesus, Johnny, how the hell did you get outta there alive?”

Johnny’s lips twisted into a smirk, though his unwavering gaze remained focused on Bull, cataloguing, appraising, waiting. “Cause I’m smarter than you…I laid low.”

It didn’t take long for word to reach CP, the crowd drawing the attention of their commanding officers, and Johnny’s literal return from the dead was met with a genuine, if somewhat muted, joy from Major Winters, who offered a small smile and a handshake—“Welcome back, Sergeant Martin.”—before he swiftly aborted the second patrol. “Sergeant Randleman, why don’t you see to it that Sergeant Martin gets some fresh ODs and some rest…and have him at CP at 06h30 for a debrief, alright?”

“Yes, sir, Major Winters, sir.” If Bull’s tone was clipped, no one appeared to notice. Well, no one but Johnny. The sergeant, his drenched ODs clinging to his body, snorted at Bull. “What? No hug?”

* * *

Bull and Johnny were alone in the blonde’s billet.

“You swam across that river…” Bull made the observation aloud as he watched, eyes tracking every shivering movement, as Johnny stripped out of his ruined uniform and attempted to dry off using a dirty potato sack. “Soaking wet. Freezin’ your ass off. What were you thinking? Didn’t you get enough frostbite in the Bois Jacques?” Bull could hear how harsh his words sounded. How they didn’t relay an ounce of the relief that radiated throughout his body.

“I was thinkin’ I didn’t wanna be a fuckin’ POW.” Johnny scoffed, eyes blown wide with disbelief. This was _not_ the reunion he’d anticipated and played through his mind again and again that day while waiting for his opportunity to slip away to the icy river unnoticed. “What? You mad or somethin’, Bull? You’re acting like this is my damn fault.”

“Maybe it is your fault, Johnny. Ordering them boys to leave you behind and all.”

Johnny froze. “Come again?”

“You heard me.”

The dark-haired sergeant’s eyes flashed dangerously. His lips curled back over his teeth, fierce and feral, as he growled, “Are you outta your fucking mind, Bull?”

“Don’t try to preach to me, Johnny Martin. You could’ve _died_ , telling the men to leave you—”

“I made a call, Bull! The same call you would’ve—”

“The hell I would have!”

“Oh, fuck you, you don’t know! You weren’t there!”

They were beyond screaming now—the Jerrys across the river could certainly hear them, much less the battalion—, all snarled words and furious expressions. They slung insults, the personal kind that only those close to you know how to properly dispense, how to cut _just right._ Someone shoved first, and then the fists were up. It wasn’t until Bull’s lip was fat and bloodied, Johnny’s eyebrow split, the socket swollen like a goose egg, that Bull’s voice exploded like a volcano.

“Johnny! I—I _thought_ you’d died!”

His thunderous declaration cut through Johnny’s latest string of defensive slanders, leaving the shorter sergeant feeling winded. _Of course, he could have died._ Johnny shook his head in disbelief, hands and shoulders and face going limp, and when he spoke, the words fell softly from his lips. “It’s war, Bull. Everybody dies.”

In the silence that followed—an uncomfortable silence, one thick with tension and regret at the exchange of unmeant words and blows and the heat behind it all—, Bull gradually came back to himself. He returned to his body, as if he’d been away for a while. He felt life come back to his limbs one after the other. Little flecks of color danced across his vision. A beat passed. Then, he was grounded, right there in that shitty room in that broken house in that battered and bruised war-torn town.

“Yeah, well,” Bull countered, tongue flicking out to taste the blood bubbling up across his bottom lip. “You can’t.”

_You can’t die, Johnny. Not while I’m still alive._

“Okay. I won’t.”

Johnny didn’t look at Bull as he changed into dry ODs, running his fingers through his hair to try and shake free some of the excess water. And Bull, quite suddenly, felt like an ass. God, he was tired. He’d bet anything that Johnny was, too. And that he was probably sore. And probably hungry. Hell, hadn’t they all been for months, though? Even in new clothes, courtesy of the PX drop yesterday, Johnny was still shivering from the bitter cold. And really, it was too much—too much like Bastogne and far too soon and Bull hated it. Hated every goddamn thing about it. He felt the anger returning, creeping up his spine to tighten his shoulders and furrow his brow, but the last thing he wanted to do was holler at Johnny again.

So, Bull crossed to the shorter man, instead, and closed his hands over Johnny’s.

Butterflies fluttered beneath his skin at the welcome contact. Absent his rage, Bull took a second to appreciate how delighted he was to _feel_ Johnny. To confirm that he wasn’t a hallucination conjured in Bull’s desperation. He was flesh and blood, it appeared. Alive. _There_ —with Bull. 

Bull’s tone was soft but firm as he ordered Johnny. “ _C’mere_.”

He gave a gentle tug, pulled the other man to him, and when Johnny came—easily, effortlessly, always always willingly—, Johnny’s head fell forward of its own volition, the exhaustion of the previous night’s undertaking catching up to him in a sudden rush. Bull resisted a low hiss—Johnny’s forehead felt like ice, even through Bull’s shirt collar. The shorter sergeant nestled in, burrowing until his chilly forehead met the warm skin of Bull’s neck, causing the tall farm boy to shiver himself. When Bull’s fingers began to undo the button’s on Johnny’s jacket, the dark-haired man mumbled against the other man’s skin. “I just put these on, ya know.”

“Would you rather I left them on?”

“…no.”

“Alright, then.” Bull continued his work, muttering, “Don’t know why you always gotta back talk.”

He felt Johnny smirk against his skin, the sensation feeling almost, teasingly, like a kiss. “You wouldn’t know what to do with me if I didn’t.”

A laugh tumbled from Bull’s lips and in a particularly impish moment, one full of relief and adoration, he dropped a kiss to the damp, chocolate curls atop Johnny’s head. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Bull let his head rest gently there. He enjoyed a deep breath, lungs filling with the scent of grass and mud and something he recognized as _Johnny._ The sergeant’s shirt hanging open, Bull continued to hold Johnny against him as his fingertips slipped beneath Johnny’s undershirt, big, warm hands splaying across the lean, clammy skin of the shorter man’s ribs. Bull poked, counted each one, internally murmuring blessings and gratitude as he went.

Johnny’s breath was hot and wet, rolling like a fog over Bull’s neck and sending gooseflesh cascading over the blonde’s collarbone and shoulder. “M’so cold, Bull. It’s like being back in that damn forest.”

“It’s alright, Johnny.” Bull’s hands wound around the sergeant’s waist to mark their way across Johnny’s hips, up his back, over his shoulders. “I’m gonna warm you up. Promise.”

* * *

It wasn’t until later, until after, when they were laying in that shitty cot, Bull’s fingers splayed across the insides of Johnny’s wrists, when Bull felt Johnny’s steady pulse beneath his fingertips that the blonde released a stuttering breath. _Finally._ He could see again, a brilliant, if somewhat morose, world, there, vibrant, in full spectral color.

“I’m sorry.” The admission fell softly from Bull’s lips. He was sorry for not keeping the faith in Johnny’s return. Sorry for acting out in anger and hurt like a child. Sorry for not telling Johnny every day that he was Bull’s very best friend. Sorry for not reminding Johnny that Bull loved him every day.

Sleepily, Johnny burrowed closer to Bull, a cocoon of blankets built like a fortress around them. “Yeah, well, now you know how I felt in Nuenen, you country fuck.”

Bull’s lips twisted. “Fair enough.” 


End file.
